


Every skirt is a new identity

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Costume Kink, Crossdressing, F/M, Genderfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is amazing, the consummate forger, con-artist and actor all in one. If there’s one constant to the things Ariadne knows about Eames, it’s that if it’s obvious he’s lying, that’s part of the act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every skirt is a new identity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trojie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/gifts).



> A present for Trojie, who's been wanting a man, on top, in a skirt for quite some time now.

Eames is amazing, the consummate forger, con-artist and actor all in one. If there’s one constant to the things Ariadne knows about Eames, it’s that if it’s obvious he’s lying, that’s part of the act.

He looks up at her from under made-up eyelashes, exaggerating the sweep of them across his cheekbones. Some days, she thinks it’s when he’s obviously lying that he comes closest to the truth. He crosses one knee over the other as he sits on the edge of her bed, the movement practised, falling just short of elegance.

‘Did you miss me?’ His tone is cocky, nothing insecure in it: either he’s sure of her answer, or he doesn’t actually care. Ariadne thinks he might love her, but she pieces that together from the things he doesn’t tell her and the questions he doesn’t ask.

‘Terribly, you egotist,’ she says, and leans down to kiss him.

He lets her, for a moment, his neck arching back and lips falling open to allow her access. He tastes like cheap lipstick: he could have borrowed hers, but Ariadne guesses that her high-end make-up kit would be out of keeping for this Eames, whoever he is today.

She wonders if he changed when he got here, or if he walked here like this, or took a taxi, all dolled up in red tartan skirt and combat boots. Fuck. She hopes he walked here, hopes he took the train from Charles de Gaulle like this, amongst all the well-dressed French women and boring as fuck businessmen in suits. She hopes her neighbours saw him.

For a moment there Eames kisses like he’s seducing a mark, like he’s someone’s fantasy and he’s just waiting to give in, to follow orders and _open_ up to someone and it just happens to be her bedroom he’s waiting in. Ariadne runs her hands down his chest, thinks about taking off the black tank top - a man’s under-shirt, she realises, pressed into service as outerwear. But... no. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t _her_ fantasy: she likes him like this.

Then he laughs into her mouth, takes her by the hips and yanks her down onto the bed. Ariadne goes, flailing a little, and Eames follows, climbing on top of her and pushing her into the mattress by the shoulders.

Ariadne retaliates, catching his lip and _biting_ to draw out a groan, and she grabs his ass, hands up under his skirt and over his cotton trunks, pulling him flush down against her. Eames ruts against her, mini-skirt fluttering around his hips. It makes her throb and ache, the hard press of him through layers of fabric - his trunks, her sensible skirt and pantyhose and briefs, and how did they get from ‘did you miss me’ to ‘fuck me, fuck me please’ so fast?

The thing is, Eames can impersonate women. Really impersonate them. He can conjure them up in dreams, he can write a woman’s handwriting, he can walk like a woman and talk like a woman and _think_ like a woman. It’s not just dreams - he can disguise himself with makeup and wigs and very, very expensive tailoring. He can impersonate female impersonators, too: after an awful lot of alcohol and some truly alarming Australian DVDs procured from God knows where, Ariadne’s heard him talk like Dame Edna Everage and seen him dream up Hugo Weaving in drag.

This isn’t impersonating, though. This isn’t even drag, not really. This is Eames, who turns up in her apartment in a tiny skirt and combat boots, but hasn’t shaved his legs or waxed his chest and has a fucking five o’clock shadow. Ariadne lifts her hips up, lets him drag her pantihose and briefs off in one go. Then there’s a scuffle with her high heels, but they come off and Eames drops his trunks and leaves his boots on, crawls back up her body and kisses along her thighs and rucks her skirt up around her hips.

‘Condom?’ Eames asks her, one eyebrow - one perfectly shaped eyebrow, because of course, he hasn’t shaved today but the eyebrows go with the makeup, they’re part of that package, not the one with the body hair.

‘What, couldn’t fit one in your purse?’ Ariadne wriggles around underneath him to get at the bedside drawer.

‘Don’t have a purse,’ Eames says, drawing patterns on the insides of her thighs that make her shiver and clench with want. ‘Cash, keys and cards go in the boots.’

‘You are unbelievable.’ Ariadne hands him the condom with one hand, while she gets the other around his cock and strokes him. She could get him to come like that, just jerking him off until he comes all over her skirt and all over _his_ skirt. But then, they’re both nice skirts, and she doesn’t fancy having to get the stains out.

They fuck like that, her on her back with her hands up under his skirt and him knowing just the right angle, slow shallow thrusts until she digs her nails into his ass and pulls him down into her, shoves up against his body in a few frantic movements. Apparently something about this - maybe it’s the outfit, but maybe not, you never can tell with Eames - does it for him, because he follows her a few seconds later, burying his face in her neck and shuddering for long moments.

‘Your pants, Mr Eames,’ she says, holding them out as he comes back from the bathroom. He has to sit down in order to get them back on over the combat boots, and then even that doesn’t work and he has to take the shoes off entirely.

It is a mystery to Ariadne how he got the pants off in the first place, but she supposes desperation provides many a solution.

‘There,’ Eames says, yanking up his pants and patting the skirt down over them. ‘I don’t suppose you have tea about here anywhere, do you?’ Ariadne does, she always does these days. ‘And then I want to talk to you about a job in Vladivostok.’

He kisses her on the side of the mouth, and wanders off to find tea.


End file.
